Chapter Text
Hannah Asher knew better than to fall for men like Dean Archer.
She had spent years letting herself be drawn to danger, to things she shouldn’t want—things that burned too brightly and left her singed. Addiction had been one form of it. Reckless love had been another. She had worked hard to leave both behind, to build herself into the woman she wanted to be. A woman who made good choices.
Dean Archer was not a good choice.
And yet, she was drawn to him in a way that made her skin prickle, as if she were standing on the edge of something sharp, something dangerous. The feeling had started small, something she barely noticed—an awareness of his presence when he entered a room, the way her pulse ticked a little faster when his eyes landed on her. She dismissed it at first. Attraction wasn’t a crime, and Dean was objectively attractive in that rough, brooding way. But it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he carried himself—rigid, disciplined, closed off, like a man who had spent too many years keeping his emotions under lock and key. It was in the sharpness of his voice when he issued orders, the precision of his movements, the weight of experience behind every decision he made. He was a man who had seen too much, who had been hardened by life and refused to let anyone get close enough to soften him.
And yet, sometimes, in the rare moments when he let his guard down—even just a fraction—Hannah caught glimpses of something else beneath the surface. A shadow of vulnerability. A flicker of pain. A loneliness that felt too familiar.
It started the way most things did at Chicago Med: in the middle of chaos.
The ER had been a battlefield that day. A multi-car collision had flooded the department with critical patients, and everyone was running at full steam. The air was thick with urgency—shouted orders, the beeping of monitors, the smell of antiseptic and blood. Hannah had been pulled into the trauma bay to help, even though OB wasn’t technically needed. But when a pregnant woman with abdominal trauma was wheeled in, she knew she had to stay.
Dean was already there, barking orders in that way of his—sharp, efficient, no patience for hesitation.
“We need to stabilize her,” he snapped, barely glancing at Hannah as she stepped in. “She’s hypotensive. BP’s dropping fast.”
Hannah’s hands were steady as she assessed the woman, her heart pounding but her mind razor-sharp. “The baby’s still viable. I need a Doppler.”
Dean’s gaze flicked to her then, just for a second—assessing, calculating. She wondered if he was about to push back, to tell her that the mother was the priority, not the baby. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded sharply, and within seconds, they were working in tandem.
Their hands moved in sync—his assessing the internal damage, hers ensuring the baby was still stable. It was seamless, effortless. A well-matched rhythm, despite the tension that always seemed to exist between them. They didn’t need to speak much; their movements spoke for them. Dean’s intensity was unwavering, but Hannah matched it, refusing to be intimidated by the force of his presence.
When the patient stabilized, the tension in the room finally eased. The chaos ebbed, the urgency giving way to the dull hum of post-adrenaline exhaustion.
Dean let out a breath and looked at her. Just for a second.
It was nothing. And yet, something.
“Nice work, Asher,” he said, his voice gruff, unreadable.
Hannah met his gaze, her stomach twisting. It was a simple acknowledgment; one he probably didn’t even think twice about. But the warmth that spread through her was entirely unwelcome.
Because she had spent years running from things that made her feel this way. And she wasn’t sure she had it in her to run from Dean Archer.
Not this time.